


Sunday Morning

by MaxWrite



Series: The Sleepwalker Series [3]
Category: British Actor RPF, Harry Potter RPF
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, RPF, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-08
Updated: 2006-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxWrite/pseuds/MaxWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees it happening despite all his efforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

One Sunday morning, I awoke to find a lock on my son’s bedroom door.

“Susan?” I called as I fumbled groggily through the semi-dark house, looking for my wife. “Sue?”

“Down here!” she hissed from the bottom of the staircase. “Be quiet, you’ll wake the boys!”

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” I muttered as I descended the stairs. “They sleep like the dead, those two.”

I followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table. She placed a cup of coffee in front of me.

“Thank you. Why is there a lock on Oliver’s door?”

“That’s been there since yesterday.”

“Which doesn’t really answer my question.”

“You really didn’t notice till just now?”

“I was very tired when I got home last night.”

“Humph.”

“So, where’d it come from?”

“Home Depot.”

I sighed. “Susan, pet, it is far too early for your comedy routine.”

“Ollie needs more privacy, that’s all.”

“And James doesn’t?”

“Guess not.”

“What does Oliver need more privacy for?”

“I don’t know.”

“You let him put a lock on his door and didn’t bother to ask him why?”

“I didn’t think it was any of my business.”

“You’re his mother.”

“Telling me what he needs more privacy for would probably defeat the purpose of asking for it in the first place.”

I sipped my coffee, watched her putter around. “It’s something to do with me.”

“Oh, Marty. Why does everything have something to do with you?”

“Then why was I not consulted?”

“Well, no offense, dear, but Ollie doesn’t seem particularly thrilled with you lately.”

She was right about that. “Fair enough. But why didn’t _you_ tell me?”

She gave a dainty little clearing of her throat. “Knew you’d subject me to the Twenty Questions of Doom, didn’t I?”

I chuckled. “You’ve got an answer for every little thing, don’t you?” I saw her smile as she cracked eggs into a bowl. “Is he all right?”

“Course.”

“He’s not in some kind of trouble?”

“You know, you could be asking him all this.”

“Is he in trouble?” I repeated.

“No.”

“You think he’d be honest with me if I went prying into his personal business?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps if you’d stop accusing him of whatever it is you’re accusing him of …”

Ah. And there it was. I knew she was going to play that card sooner or later. I shut up then. Didn’t want to talk about it.

“Where are they, anyway?” I grunted after an extended silence.

“They’ll be down in a bit, I’m sure.”

And they were. They came down and into the kitchen together, chatting quietly about something.

“Morning, dad,” said James cheerfully, flashing me a happy smile. He bounded over to his mother and kissed her cheek. Oliver kissed her too, sauntering over to her casually, behind James. Then he glanced at me.

“Morning, dad,” he said seriously. I gave him a little nod. I hated myself. Hated myself for what I was thinking; it was disgusting. Hated myself for believing he was completely to blame.

Still, there was that mysterious new lock on his door …

Susan and I sat at opposite ends of the table while the boys sat side-by-side. I watched them. They’d seemed rather close of late.

Which is … fine. Brothers ought to be close, of course. But sometimes they look a little too cozy to me.

And if there is someone to blame in all this, well, then of course I blame Oliver. It’s not like he hasn’t given me reasons to do so.

 

 **1992**

I opened the front door to a very weary-looking Tilda Gregory. My boys were with her, one on either side of her, heads down. James had a big round bandage on his right knee.

“What’s happened now?” I asked tiredly.

“Two words:” she said, “Mrs. … MacNeal.”

I winced. “They didn’t.”

“Oh, but they did.”

I looked down at the tops of their identical dark brown heads. “Boys, is this true?”

“Yes,” they answered obediently, in perfect unison, without looking up.

I looked back up at Tilda. “What’s the damage?”

“No damage. Just a few frightened boys, one mildly injured one,” she rumpled James’s hair, “some wounded pride, and one very angry old woman.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not too worried about the old bat. Woman’s a menace, if you ask me. What I’d like to know is what exactly these two were doing in her yard?”

They neither answered, nor moved.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Tilda. “I’ve got my own brood to deal with.”

“Jack and Michael were in on it, too, eh?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s always a mob mentality with these little monsters.” She gave the scruffs of both their necks a playful squeeze. “Buh-bye, boys, stay out of trouble. See ya, Martyn.”

I thanked her for bandaging James up, said goodbye, and closed the door. Susan came downstairs just then.

“Was the Til’s voice I heard just now? Why didn’t she stay -” An enormous gasp cut off the rest of that sentence. She was gaping in horror at James, who was standing sullenly at my left.

“Yeah, the boys got into old lady MacNeal’s yard,” I explained. “Dunno what’s happened exactly, haven’t had a chance to interrogate yet. But looks like James got a little scrape on his knee.”

“And his face,” she said. She’d dropped to her knees before him and was cupping his little face in her hands.

“What?”

She angled his face upward so I could finally see the rectangular bandage across his eyebrow. His big, brown eyes scanned the ceiling, never landing on my face.

“All right,” I said. “Come sit down and spill your guts, you two.”

We all sat in the kitchen and began the Q and A.

“So, your ball went into her yard,” I said. They nodded. “And nobody wanted to go in and get it.” They shook their heads. “Well, can’t blame ya there,” I added under my breath. Susan elbowed my ribs. “What? They don’t call her a witch for nothing, you know. So,” I cleared my throat, “you all played rock/paper/scissors to see who was going in, and James lost.” They nodded again. “And?”

“She came out to get me,” James muttered in his most misery-ridden voice. He shifted in his seat, trying to get closer to his brother. They’d positioned their chairs side-by-side, right up against each other, as they always did. They were close enough for their legs to touch beneath the table, and I knew that they _were_ touching. Their hands were resting on top of the table, James’s hands stiffly clasping each other, Oliver’s playing nervously with the corner of a placemat.

“What do you mean _get_ you?” I asked.

“She ran out screaming, she came right at me, and she was waving a rolling pin.”

Susan’s hands flew up to her mouth. “Did that woman hit you?”

“No.”

“She was only trying to scare him,” Oliver chimed in. “She backed James into the fence and was yelling at him, and he just froze.”

James lowered his head. I could see a vertical frown line appear between his brows.

“So, I ran in, grabbed the ball, and went to get James away from her.”

“And that’s it?” I asked. He nodded. “Then how did he get hurt?”

“He hurt himself while we were climbing back over the fence,” Oliver answered simply.

Susan and I sat back in our chairs.

“Should we go asked MacNeal what happened, get her side?” she asked.

“Nah, she’ll just make up some wild story, blow everything out of proportion. You know how she is.” I made the universal sign for ‘crazy,’ spinning my index finger round and round next to my temple. “We can ask the other parents what their boys said happened. That should give us a good indication.”

“We’re not lying,” said Oliver indignantly.

“I know you’re not, Ol, we just want every single detail. You might’ve missed something.”

“Are you okay, Jamesy?” asked Susan, getting up and going to James’s side. He nodded sadly at her.

“Ollie took care of me,” he said in his tiny voice, instinctively reaching over for Oliver’s hand, without even look around at him. His eyes remained on his mother’s face. “And Mrs. Gregory gave us each a cookie.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” I said, getting up. “Reward them for breaking and entering.”

Susan gave me a withering look, then turned back to James. “My poor, poor little Baby James, you must’ve been so, so frightened.” He nodded again and fell against her when she opened her arms to him.

I clapped Oliver on the back as I would a colleague from work. “So, you handled things, did you?” He looked up at me, eyes wide and solemn. He nodded. “Charged in there, rescued your brother, took care of things, eh?” He gave me a proud little smile and nodded again. “’Atta boy. Good man.” I gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. He gave me a little nod, seemed to sit up straighter, then turned back to James, who’d let go of his mother and had turned back to Oliver as well. They were still clutching each other’s hands. Susan and I stepped back.

“Should we let them hold hands like that?” I asked quietly.

“Why shouldn’t we?”

“I dunno. They’re boys.”

“They’re _six.”_

Fair enough. Still, I was uneasy. The boys had turned to each other, were speaking softly to each other. Oliver reached up to sweep James’s fringe off his bandage.

“Do they hurt?” he asked, looking down at the one on James’s knee.

“No. Not anymore.”

“Were you scared?”

James nodded, pouting at Oliver the same way he had with his mother. They slid off their chairs and embraced, James falling into Oliver’s skinny little arms just like he had done with Susan, leaning into him, burying his face in Oliver’s neck. Susan glanced over and smiled at them, then went back to her dinner preparations. I stood by, watching them closely.

“Boys,” I said sternly. “That’s enough now.”

“They’re only comforting each other,” muttered Susan over her shoulder.

Still holding James, Oliver shot me a look. For a moment, I thought he’d glared at me, but I dismissed it as my imagination. The embrace finally ended, and James took Oliver’s hand and began to lead him from the kitchen.

“Where’re you going?” I asked.

“Upstairs to play,” said James, stopping to look up at me.

“Okay. But leave your door open.”

Oliver glanced back at me as he was dragged from the kitchen. I couldn’t quite figure out this look either. It was almost as though he was trying to figure _me_ out, was searching my eyes for something. It almost looked like he didn’t trust me.

Susan frowned at me when they’d left.

“What?” I asked innocently.

 

“You shouldn’t be so easy with James,” I said to Susan later that day. “He’s turning out to be such a softy. Oliver’s always rescuing him, and Oliver’s smaller than he is.”

“Not by that much. And anyway, Oliver’s older.”

“Thirteen minutes doesn’t make that big a difference, Sue. There shouldn’t be any distinction, they’re the same age. It shouldn’t be Baby James and Big Man Oliver. Stop calling James a baby and he’ll stop acting like one.”

“He should rely on his brother when he needs help, shouldn’t he?”

“They should rely on each other equally. But that’s not the case now, is it? … Hey, where are they anyway?”

“In their room.”

“What’re they doing? Have you heard anything for the past little while?”

“They probably fell asleep.”

I went to check on them. When children get too quiet, it could mean any number of things that could include fires, sharp objects, or furniture being used as trampolines or catapults.

I got closer and closer to their bedroom. They were in there, the light was on, but I still couldn’t hear them. Perhaps they had fallen asleep, I thought. The door was open a few inches. I peered inside. My stomach lurched at what I saw.

They were both lying on Oliver’s bed, James on his back, Oliver next to him, lying on his side, facing James. James was gazing up at him, one finger exploring Oliver’s face. My eyes traveled down James’s little body, down past his blue and white striped t-shirt to his dark blue shorts. An arm was sticking out of them, a hand moving beneath the blue cotton, the drawstring waist stretched slightly to accommodate the probing limb. That limb belonged to Oliver, who was staring back at James, watching him intently, clearly watching for reactions from James, reactions to what he was doing to James’s body.

 _My god,_ I thought, panicked. I wanted to barge in there, scold them both, but I knew Susan wouldn’t approve of such a tactic, and, quite frankly, a part of me didn’t either. That could be horribly damaging for both of them. But I certainly couldn’t just leave them be, not like that.

A tiny whimper issued from James. I couldn’t tell if that was a good noise or not. I guessed it was good, because he continued to stare up at Oliver. If he’d wanted Oliver to stop, he would’ve just said so, there were no communication problems between them.

 _Well,_ I thought, _this is a very different situation than anything you’ve seen before. Maybe in this instance, James_ is _afraid to speak up. How do you know?_

They began whispering to each other. I strained to hear, but couldn’t. Oliver’s hand continued to move inside James’s shorts. James’s chest began to rise and fall rapidly, and he spread his legs wider. Oliver began to pet James’s forehead and hair with his free hand as they gazed at each other. James’s hand fell from Oliver’s face, landed a bit lower down, at Oliver’s shoulder, where it clutched at Oliver’s t-shirt. And then, Oliver lowered his face to James, planted a little kiss on James’s cheek.

My heart was pounding. I backed away from the door, prepared to make some noise to indicate my approach. They’d hear me and stop, and then I’d make something up to get them either apart, or at least get them in plain view for an extended period, downstairs watching the telly with me perhaps.

I heard the bed squeak and hoped it meant they’d finally moved away from each other. I padded lightly toward the door again, peeked inside. They hadn’t stopped. It’d only gotten worse. Oliver had shifted, was now lying halfway on top of James, hand still very busy inside James’s shorts. And their lips were pressed together.

 _Oh, dear god,_ I thought. Oliver’s tongue poked out and licked at James’s mouth. _Oh, dear god!_ That was it. I backed up, cleared my throat very loudly and called to them. “Boys?” I yelled. “Where are you?”

Oliver’s bed squeaked frantically. Neither boy answered me. I gave them several seconds to get themselves together before I went forth and pushed the door open. When I did, they were sitting side-by-side on Oliver’s bed. Oliver was pulling at the ears of the fuzzy Easter bunny Susan had given him that year on the morning of Easter Sunday. James was sitting next to him looking somewhat guilty and very, very flushed. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms round his legs.

“What were you up to, gentlemen?” I asked.

“Nothing,” they answered in unison.

“Oh? You were awfully quiet.” They shrugged. “Wanna come downstairs and watch something with me? Come on, we can watch a Disney movie together. I’ll make popcorn and everything.”

They glanced at each other.

“Can we do it later, daddy?” asked James.

“Well, it’s getting late, though.”

“It’s not that late,” said Oliver.

“Well, now, how do you know?”

“I can tell time!” he insisted proudly. “Please, daddy? Can’t we play for a bit longer?”

They wanted to get back to their little activity, especially Oliver, it seemed. Damn.

“You can play downstairs where I can keep an eye on you, then. Come on. Bring whatever toys you want and let’s go.”

They exchanged another glance. James looked worried.

“Is something wrong?”

“I have to go to the bathroom first,” James announced.

“Fine, fine, go ahead.”

He hopped down off the bed, turned back to Oliver and reached out for his hand.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” They both stopped and turned to me. “You can go by yourself, James, you’re a big boy.”

This time I was certain Oliver had glared at me. “He needs me,” he said, sliding off the bed and allowing James to take his hand.

“Needs you for what?”

“He just _does,”_ Oliver replied simply, but there was something more in his voice. It had force behind it, but was still very civilised and respectful. It was downright authoritative.

They stood before me, hand-in-hand, James’s gaze big and worried, Oliver’s clear and direct. I noticed Oliver’s hand squeeze James’s.

“What’s going on?” asked Susan as she approached. She stood on her toes and peered into the room over my shoulder.

“They want to go to the bathroom together,” I sighed, massaging my temples.

“Oh. They always do that. Come on, boys.” She nudged me aside and signaled for the boys to come on out. She ushered them into the bathroom across the hall and closed the door. “What was the problem?” she asked me.

I glanced at her sidelong. “Do you have any idea what they do when they’re alone?”

She cocked her head at me. “What?”

“Jesus, woman,” I muttered and walked away.

“What? Martyn?”

I waved a hand dismissively at her as I stalked off.

 

 **1993**

I peered in at the boys. It was well past eleven p.m., so I wasn’t about to risk waking James by picking him up and putting him in his own bed, but, damn, did I want to.

“They’re fine,” said Susan on her way passed. “Leave them alone.”

“Oh, I’m sure they feel just fine, all snuggled up like that,” I muttered, following her. “But they’re seven years old, Sue. They’re big boys, they shouldn’t still be -”

“We’ve had this discussion, Martyn.” She slipped into our bathroom and whipped out the cold cream. “I will not force them to stop prematurely. It might traumatise them.”

“Oh, please,” I spat, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, watching her tie her hair back and coat her face in fluffy white goo. “You’re so dramatic. I just want to mention to them that boys don’t share beds with other boys.”

She smirked. “Some do.”

“Don’t even start with that.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I want to talk to them, Susan. Ask Joe and Emily, ask them if their sons sleep together still.”

“Their sons aren’t our sons. Their sons aren’t identical twins. I’m not about to start comparing.”

“It isn’t normal.”

“According to whom?”

“What if they don’t want to stop, hm? What if we wait and wait and wait, and they never outgrow it?”

She turned to me, looking as though she’d been hit in the face with a pie. She put her hand on her hip. That’s never a good sign. “What precisely are you afraid of? What the neighbours will think if they find out? Or is it having a gay son, or possibly two, that scares you so much? ‘Cause I can tell you now, stopping them sharing a bed isn’t going to prevent that.”

“It might prevent something else, though.”

“And what’s that?”

I rolled my eyes. “They’re awfully close, Sue.”

She raised an eyebrow. “They’re twins, Martyn.”

I bit my bottom lip, debating whether I should say it or not. We both knew it. How could she not have noticed? But we’d never talked about it. Not till that moment.

“They touch each other, you know.” She didn’t move. If her face hadn’t been covered in that paste, I would’ve been able to see her jaw muscles working. “You know they do, Sue. And what do you think about that, hm?”

She looked off to the right. “I think children do that, Martyn.”

“Well, of course they do, but that doesn’t mean we should allow it to happen.”

“It’s not like they do it in front of us.”

“Oh, well, _that_ makes it better. And anyway, that’s not entirely true.”

“I beg your pardon? They have never touched inappropriately around me.”

“Not inappropriately, per se, no. But the snuggling?”

“Oh, please.” At that she spun round and continued her nightly ritual.

“The hand holding. I saw Oliver kiss James’s cheek a few weeks ago right downstairs in the living room, in front of that big window, did you know that?”

“I saw that,” she said dryly. “Asked him to do it again and took a picture.”

I gritted my teeth. “Do not encourage it, Susan.”

“It’s the 90’s, Martyn. We have to be more enlightened about these things.”

“We do, do we?”

“Yes. They’re little boys. They love each other. They’re each other’s entire world right now. And that’s okay. Soon, their worlds will expand, they’ll move away from each other a bit, explore new things.”

“It’s what they’re exploring right now I’m concerned about.”

“My point is,” she stopped fussing over her face and hair and met my eyes in the mirror, “soon, they won’t be quite so precious anymore. Soon, they’ll be young men. We have to cherish this time while we have it. And if you go talking to them about manhood and manliness and telling them to be all stoic and emotionless and not to show each other affection … you just might ruin what little time we have left.” Suddenly, her eyes, two liquid marbles in that sea of blinding white, looked sad and imploring. “Don’t take them away from me. Isn’t society trying hard enough to do that? I don’t need my husband joining the fight.”

I can’t stand to see her sad. I went up behind her and took her by the shoulders. “I’m not against you, Sue,” I said in a softer voice. “I’m just … worried, is all.”

She smiled under her mask and patted one of my hands. “Oh, honey. You’re such a man.”

Something about the way she said that - I'm such a man. It rubbed me the wrong way.

“What does that mean?” I asked, my demeanor turning abruptly cold. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. Fill me in.”

She cocked her head. “What?”

“You have a very negative opinion of men in general, don’t think I hadn’t noticed.”

“I don't always.”

“A lot of the time you do. Don’t you think they pick up on that? Kids are like sponges, you know. I know it’s my job to teach them how to be men, but I don’t need you going behind my back and undermining me.”

“I do not do that.”

“Maybe not on purpose …” I raised my eyebrows. “Or maybe it is on purpose, how do I know?”

“I think you’re overreacting.”

“Humph. You would.”

She called after me as I stalked away. I could’ve stayed and argued a bit more, I was on a roll, but, fact was, I had a point. I like to leave on a high note.

I went into Oliver’s room then, quietly approached the bed. I turned on the lamp and stared down at them. They were facing each other, lying close, forehead-to-forehead. Well, it was awfully cute, and part of me did want to take a picture, but an even bigger part of me couldn’t help but notice James’s little hand sliding forward beneath the covers and laying itself on Oliver’s arm.

I knelt next to them, whispered, “Ollie.” I gave his back a little poke. “Ollie.”

He stirred, but only slightly. He let out a plaintive little moan.

“Ollie. It’s Dad. Lemmie talk to you for a moment.”

Another moan, and then, “… Jamie.”

I frowned. Jamie? “He’s right in front of you. It’s dad who’s talking to you now -”

And then he did something that clinched the whole thing for me. He shifted forward a bit and kissed James. Right on the mouth.

It was a light kiss, a closed-mouthed little kid kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. And at that point, James shifted too, closer to his brother. I wanted to snatch him up out of there and throw him back in his own bed, but I resisted. I straightened up, turned off the lamp, and left the room.

 

I wasn’t about to let a bunch of women’s lib, 1990’s, PC, sensitive man bullshite tell me how to raise my sons. I let them have their last little slumber party that night. And the following day, when they came home from school, and I was home from work, and Sue was busy in the kitchen, I had a little chat with them. I found them on the couch together, watching cartoons and cuddling. I sat between them on the couch, forcing them apart.

“How are you boys?”

“Fine,” they answered in unison.

“Excellent. Have you done your schoolwork?”

“Yes,” again, in unison.

“Good, good. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about your, erm, sleeping arrangement. You boys, you’re almost – what? – seven?”

“We _are_ seven, dad,” said James, looking at me as though I was the world’s biggest idiot. In truth, I’d said that on purpose. I’d wanted them to tell me how old they were, to acknowledge it themselves.

“Seven and a quarter,” added Oliver proudly.

“And a whole quarter?” I said with exaggerated surprise. “Really? I thought seven for sure, but seven _and_ a quarter? … No, you’re lying.”

“Noooo!” Their synchronicity was almost frightening at times.

“Really. Well, you know what that means, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You’re big boys now. Almost men, really. Do you know what my dad did for me when I turned seven and a quarter?” They shook their identical heads. “He got me a bigger bed. It was all my own and I didn’t have to share it with anyone. And every time I slept alone in that bed, without my brother or my mother, every time I made it through a stormy night all by myself without anyone coming in to stay with me, I knew that I was one step closer to being a man.”

“What’s good about being a man?” asked James, laying his head on my arm. What’s good about being a man? I glared in the general direction of the kitchen.

“Well, men get to shave – feel that.” I lowered my face to Oliver, and he reached up and touched my jaw, then I moved over to James, who did the same. “’Cause men grow beards, you see. So, men have to shave everyday. And men drink coffee in the morning, and some wear suits to work where they tell people what to do. And men drive cars, and date pretty girls -”

They both giggled at that and made faces.

“Girls are gross, dad,” said Oliver, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, you won’t feel that way for long.”

“They’re mean!” said James. “Christi Greenwood always throws things at us.”

“Well, that just means she likes you.” They exchanged a look of disbelief there. “In any case, I think it’s time you both got bigger beds. Ones you won’t be too big for in a few years’ time. What do you say?” They seemed to like this idea. So far. “But you have to promise me one thing – well, actually two things. First, you have to promise that you won’t tell Mum we had this conversation. You see, your mother doesn’t want you to grow up.”

“How come?” asked James.

“She likes you as little boys. It’s not a bad thing, exactly, she’s just sentimental. But you’re going to grow up, she can’t stop that. It’s gonna be hard for her to accept. So, telling her we had this talk about being men will only upset her, make her sad. This is a man thing. No women allowed. So, don’t tell her, okay? You be good boys for mummy.” They both nodded. “Right. Second thing I want you to promise is this: from now on, you’ll try to be good men and sleep in your own beds. Alone. All night. Without each other. Okay?”

Tension descended upon the room like a heavy fog rolling in. They both exchanged another quick glance, then looked away, across the room or down at their laps. James was biting his lip. Oliver was wringing his hands. I felt like an instant prick. But it had to be done.

“Sleeping together isn’t bad, exactly, it’s just not what men do. You’re getting older every second. It’s time to start acting like seven-and-a-quarter-year-old men. All right?”

I noticed Oliver take a deep breath. Then he looked up at me. I couldn’t quite decipher the look on his face. It could’ve been any number of things, but my two top guesses were determination and resentment. He looked at James again, who looked back. James looked almost frightened.

I placed my hand on James’s back. I could feel his little heart pounding. “James? What’s the matter?”

He didn’t answer. He looked away from his brother, shifted in his seat, emitted a tiny, barely perceptible whimper.

“What was that?” I asked gently. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. Then, seeming to muster everything he had to say what he was about to say, he added, “I promise, dad. I’ll stay in my own bed from now on.”

It was my own heart’s turn to hammer in my chest. The way he’d said that; it was as if he knew why I was doing what I was doing. I pushed my guilt down, patted his back, said, “Good boy. I love you, okay?” then turned Oliver. He was still watching James, his expression having changed to worry.

“Jamie?” he said.

“Don’t call me that,” said James with sudden conviction. He sat up straighter and looked at his brother again. “My name’s James.”

Oliver’s gaze shifted directly to me then, and it was hard and accusatory. He stared at me for several seconds just … glaring. But he finally gave me a little nod. Just one nod, that was it. He’d agreed.

“Right then,” I said shakily. “Saturday. We’ll go shopping, yeah? Just the three of us. We’ll make a day of it.”

They both nodded again. James gave me a smile that looked forced and said, “Thanks, dad,” with virtually no feeling in his voice. Then he slid down off the couch and left the room, went into the hall, up the stairs. Moments later, I heard a door close.

“Why did you call him ‘Jamie’?” I asked.

“He likes it when I call him that.”

“He does? Didn’t look like it to me.”

Oliver looked up at me, his eyes flat, his face expressionless. “He did last night.”

My stomach dropped right down to the floor. He did last night? Last night? My seven-and-a-quarter-year-old son was talking about his identical twin, and he sounded like a jealous lover. Seven-and-a-quarter-year-olds didn’t say things like “He did last night,” not the way Oliver had just said it.

“What do you boys talk about in bed?”

He looked away again. “Secret. Can’t tell.”

I felt a shift in that moment. Oliver was sitting right next to me, but suddenly it felt like he was miles away, and there was a dense coldness separating us.

I placed an arm about his shoulders. “This is for your own good,” I said softly, leaning down close to his face. “You know I’d never deliberately do anything to hurt you and James. You two can’t go on like this, you must know that.”

“We like being together.”

“You spend your entire day together, what’s a few hours at night? And anyway, you’re not getting separate rooms just yet. Just separate beds, that’s all.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But I do understand the world. And what you do together isn’t normal.”

He turned a wounded gaze on me so quickly, I almost recoiled. He knew. He knew that I knew.

“What d’you mean what we _do_ together?” he snapped. “How d’you know what we do together?”

I kept my tone gentle and sympathetic. “I’m not stupid, Oliver. Now, your mother might be willing to turn a blind eye to it, but I just can’t.”

He was breathing slightly harder now, his expression angry. “What are you really talking about?” And he sounded so adult just then, I was taken aback. I couldn’t believe this was Oliver.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m talking about?” He didn’t answer. I sighed. “Ollie, it’s normal to be curious, but, well … touching is …”

He sat next to me, quietly seething. And shameful. His entire head and neck turned bright pink.

“It’s fine to be curious, but there are some things that men just don’t do, okay?”

He said nothing.

Susan noticed the difference in them straight away. At dinner that night, they were noticeably less affectionate with each other. And with us, for that matter. They barely looked at us. But I suspected that had more to do with shame than with anger.

“What’s up with them?” she asked me later on.

“What do you mean?”

“They seemed awfully distant at dinner. Did you say something to them?”

“Nope. Oh, you know what?” I said, as though just remembering something. “James mentioned something about some boy at school teasing them. About how close they are.”

She looked concerned. “Really?”

“Yeah. I think they feel a little ashamed about it.”

“They seemed fine when they got home. Why didn’t they mention it to me?”

“They came to me this time. I think they didn’t want to worry you. You know how you get.”

She narrowed her eyes at me for that last remark. “Well, what did you say to them?”

“I said that they’re closeness is nothing to be ashamed of … however …” She folded her arms. “… they might want to keep some distance in public. That’s all. Was that wrong?”

She frowned, mentally going over what I said I’d said, checking for errors. “No. No, I guess not. But then why are they still so awkward? I mean, they’re not in public here.”

“Like I said, Sue, I think they feel a bit ashamed.”

“Well, that’s horrible. Let me go talk to them.”

I stopped her, caught her by her upper arms on her way passed me. I shook my head. “Not a good idea.”

“Why?”

“They feel weird enough, love. I’ve spoken to them about it, now you, too? If we both have a talk with them, they’re going to think this is a much bigger deal than it is.”

“But I don’t think it’s healthy that they -”

“It’ll pass. Come on, with a bond as strong as theirs? They’ll get over it, and they’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“I … guess.”

I wasn’t entirely wrong. They loosened back up soon enough, went back to playing and laughing with each other almost like normal. I say ‘almost,’ because I couldn’t help but notice that they’d sometimes need to change course midway, stop a hand from reaching out, or a foot from taking that extra step. A wall appeared between them, one that they both desperately wanted to smash out of the way, but didn’t dare. Certainly not when I was around.

I never once caught either one sleeping in the other’s bed again either. And do you know how lonely they each looked? Each boy curled up in the center of a new bed that was still far too big for him. It was rather pitiful. And it gave me a little guilt twinge somewhere around my sternum every time I passed by their room and saw them lying there, each in the middle of his own private island, miles of sheets in all directions. I’d stand in the hall, peering in, and could see both of them at once, each a sad little ball beneath the covers. It was the loneliest thing I’d ever seen. They were so close, right next to each other. But they didn’t dare pass over in the night, never again. They’d been thoroughly shamed.

And, honestly, so had I. I’d made my sons feel like shite, and I’d lied to my wife about it.

I went on as though nothing had changed.

A year later, James started sleepwalking.

 

* * *

They struggled to keep a safe distance from one another, at least while under my scrutiny. I saw the signs of that struggle in Oliver’s increased fidgeting when James got too near, in the longing I saw in James’s eyes whenever he’d watch Oliver speak. Every now and then, they’d slip back into their old ways, sitting a bit too close, touching unnecessarily. But those incidents were few and far between.

They were fifteen, tall and lanky and awkward and newly immersed in show business … and under a new kind of scrutiny.

The conventions began. Autographs and pictures, and an interesting phenomenon: they’d touch for pictures. It was almost as if they couldn’t help it. It didn’t matter if there was a person in between them, Oliver would reach over to lay a hand on James’s back, or James would lean over and nudge Oliver with his shoulder. Nearly every. Single. Time.

I watched this happen time and time again. Susan didn’t see anything wrong, of course. You’re supposed to get close for pictures, she said. I suppose, but it bugged me nonetheless. Sometimes, it was just damned ridiculous, no need for it at all. I didn’t say anything, though. It only happened for pictures. I let it slide, but I knew what it was; it was their own little excuse, their private loophole. A safe way to touch in my presence.

Then came my suspicions about James. They were sixteen, and Susan had managed to locate some, erm, questionable material hidden in Oliver’s room.

“Well, what should we do?” she asked me.

“About what?”

“About _this!”_ She waved the magazine at me.

“Oh! … What, we’re supposed to do something about that?”

She raised her eyebrows at me.

“He’s sixteen. He’s a young man. He’s noticing young women. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Her hand went to her hip. “These women have mothers somewhere, you know.”

“You’re not seriously worried about him disrespecting women, are you? ‘Cause in case you hadn’t noticed, Oliver’s the most respectful individual we’ve ever known.” She deflated a little at that. She knew I was right. “He’s not disrespecting anyone, he’s not thinking of women as objects. He’s appreciating something beautiful.”

“You’re just ecstatic that he’s not gay.”

“You say that like I should be ashamed or something. Just put it back where you found it. Really, this is not a big deal. In fact, it’s one of the most normal things he’s ever done.”

She gave up and began making her way back to Oliver’s bedroom.

“Did you find anything like that in James’s room?”

She turned back to me. “No. Why?”

“Er, no reason.”

James. There was something distinctly … delicate about him. Far less effeminate than some boys, true. But still.

And they were seventeen, and _it_ happened. And it’s all over the internet. And it’ll never go away. The signs do _denounce_ twincest, granted, but the incident still drew attention to the issue. And still does.

“Dammit!” Adrian cursed, watching his ball fly off into the sun. “That’s in the sand trap for sure. Ah, well.”

We gathered our equipment and started walking across the green together.

“I suppose you’ve seen it,” he said.

“Seen what?”

“The picture. Online.” I tried to frown at him, but only managed to squint in the bright sun. “Of your boys … with the signs.”

I looked away. “It’s online, is it?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s something, isn’t it? That people really write that kind of thing about characters from a children’s book.”

“Humph,” I grunted.

“You’re upset.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“We don’t have to talk about it then.”

We walked in silence for several minutes.

“They seem really close,” he said suddenly. “Your boys.”

I stopped walking. “What’s that supposed to mean, Adrian?”

“I’m just saying that perhaps … maybe …”

“Out with it.”

“Maybe people write this stuff about them because they see something between them.” He shrugged as though trying to distance himself from his statement, as though he wasn’t talking about himself.

“They’re writing about fictional characters, not James and Oliver.”

“Oh, come on, Marty. You know as well as I who they’re picturing when they write that stuff. It’s not some vague description of a character in a book. It’s your sons. And my son, and Nigel’s, and Mike’s, and Alan’s. Our children’s faces _are_ the faces of these characters now.”

“What’s your point?”

He sighed. “My point is … James and Oliver have a very difficult time hiding their … bond. They’re close, as well they should be, but it looks a bit strange to us outsiders.”

I blinked up at the sky. “You and the others have been talking, have you? Special secret meetings going on, eh?”

“Marty -”

“Why am I not surprised I didn’t get that memo?”

“See, I knew you’d take it this way.”

“They are _twins,_ you know. You don’t know what it’s like being twins. Growing up with each other and being each other’s everything for so long. It’s not the same as with other types of siblings.”

“I know, I know. That’s what I thought. I was just saying, Mart. They might wanna watch it a bit in public.”

“Damn,” I cursed and continued walking. He followed. “Can everybody see these things? Does everybody think … whatever the hell it is they’re thinking?”

“I’m sure not everybody does. Have they started dating yet?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, they probably should.”

Enter Christi Greenwood. She’d had her eye on James and Oliver since they’d all met, way back when they were all five. She’d grown into quite an attractive girl, average height, slender, dark blond hair, nice smile. Wholesome looking. Perfect for James.

He balked, of course. I knew he would. But I had to try.

Mere days after I had my little chat with James about Christi and his sexuality, he started sleepwalking again. I found him wandering the hall one night. That nagging guilt began to twist in my chest again. I knew it was, once again, because of me. This bout, however, was shorter than all the rest, and I couldn’t figure out why. Was he becoming more resilient with age? Possibly. I had a feeling it was something else, though. I put two and two together. I know what I saw.

Things got awkward after that. James was furious with me, and Oliver, well, that cold distance returned, the same feeling I’d had back in ’93 on the couch that evening. Only this time, he was over six foot and teeming with testosterone. He was protecting his brother fiercely. Protecting him from me. That hit me hard. So, I backed off, stopped focusing so much on James’s sexuality. James seemed to accept this. Oliver was … Oliver _is_ having a more difficult time forgiving.

And the wheels in my head started spinning even faster. I saw Oliver looming over James on the bed when they were six, touching him, fondling him, kissing him, getting so angry with me when I forced them to stop sharing a bed. James hadn’t gotten angry like that. He’d been sad for a while, but not angry. He’d given in awfully easily when I’d suggested the new bigger beds. But Oliver … he’d glared at me. He’d almost raised his voice at me. He’d spoken of James as though I’d stolen James away from him.

And here was James, seventeen and maladjusted and still pining for his brother. And here was Oliver, seventeen and still resenting me, and grabbing at any chance he could to touch James, to wrap his arm round him, to show the world just exactly who James belonged to.

I could’ve blamed Susan. She’d thought their snuggling was adorable, had encouraged it even, but she’d never forced them together. I could’ve blamed the young lady who’d introduced this new word, ‘twincest,’ into the twins’ vocabulary, perhaps making them think it was okay and cool and mainstream, but I knew that was a long shot. Oliver, however … placing blame with him became all too easy.

 

 **Today**

Sunday morning breakfast. It was all back and had been for weeks now; the sitting too close, the secret glances. I stared at them as I ate my eggs.

James looked disgustingly happy.

A few weeks ago, Susan had tried to point out to me that something was amiss, and I’d called her crazy for it. Truth is I knew exactly what she was talking about. I just hadn’t wanted to admit it. Quite frankly, I didn’t want to discuss it at all. I didn’t want to think about it. But there it was, sitting right before me.

I studied them over breakfast; the healthy blush in James’s cheeks, the natural way he let his arm press against his brother’s, the way Oliver allowed this, the way he automatically poured James more orange juice when he saw James was running low. The way he _looked_ at James; this Mona Lisa smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. And his eyes, the softness in them. If he’d reached up to stroke James’s hair just then, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Susan was watching me. I caught her staring before she could look away. I ignored the look.

“What’re you two up to today?” I asked.

“Going to the park,” said James. “Can we take the dogs?”

“Your scripts arrived on Friday. Have you had a look at them yet?”

“Course.”

“Let me rephrase that: have you actually _studied_ them yet?”

He pouted at me. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

“I dunno …”

“It’s Sunday, dad.”

“I don’t want you two wandering off and …” And what, Martyn? Go on, say it. “… and goofing around.” Coward. “You should’ve been studying those scripts since they got here.”

“We can do a read-through when we get back,” said Oliver sensibly. “We’ll only be a few hours.”

“You can do a read-through before you leave.”

“Oh, come on, dad,” James pleaded.

“Martyn,” said Susan.

“Susan,” I said.

“It’s all right,” said Oliver, staring stonily down at the sausage he was cutting up. “We’ll do it his way. It’s not worth fighting over.”

James’s little pout became more pronounced. His shoulders slumped a bit and he leaned against Oliver even more. Oliver, his eyes now soft again, turned and tilted his head toward James, murmured something I couldn’t hear. James looked at him and gave him a little smile, which Oliver returned, along with a little nudge with his shoulder.

It was as if they couldn’t help themselves, just like when they were little. It was like they didn’t realise that other people could see what they were doing. It was like they didn’t know their interaction looked very unbrotherly. I gritted my teeth.

“Stop it,” I said under my breath. Everyone looked at me.

“I’m sorry?” said Oliver.

“I said stop it.”

“Stop what exactly?”

“Ollie,” said James, looking nervous.

“You know what.”

“Martyn,” Susan repeated, looking at me pointedly.

“Is this ’93 all over again?” asked Oliver. “Is this our little chat all over again, dad?”

My eyes darted over to Susan, who was looking confused and suspicious, just as I’d expected. I put my fork down and stood. “We need to talk. The three of us.”

“Do you have to do this now?” asked Susan.

“When would you suggest?”

“He’s right,” said Oliver, standing as well. “This is awkward enough. We’ll do it now.” He waited for James to stand, and they both left the kitchen. I made to follow, but then stopped when I heard a fork clatter against a plate. I turned to Susan. She was sitting with her arms crossed.

“There was no boy,” I said. She looked up at me. “Back when they were seven. There was no boy at school who made fun of them. It was me. I had a chat with them and I -” I stopped, reconsidered my words, took a deep breath. “I was the one who made fun of them, really. I shamed them. I went behind your back, and I made them feel like shite, and then I lied to you about it. That’s why they stopped sharing their beds with each other, that’s why … that’s why James started sleepwalking.” She lowered her gaze. “His confidence has always been shaky, and I took away his security blanket. And I’m sorry.”

Her chest inflated slowly with air and she nodded. “Well, okay then.”

“What?”

“Okay,” she repeated with a shrug.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me?”

“No.”

“Are you angry?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you forgive me?”

A pause, and then, “Eventually.”

I swallowed hard. “I love you, Sue.”

“I love you, too, Martyn.”

“I really am sorry.”

“So am I.”

Guilt twisted inside me. “I had my reasons, though, and they seemed pretty good at the time, I … I wasn’t just doing it to spite you.”

She nodded. “I know, hun, I know.”

We stared at each other for a moment in silence. She had a look in her eyes that just hurt my heart. Her disappointment was all right there inside them. There was nothing on the rest of her face that gave any indication she was feeling anything at all, but her eyes … it was as though a light inside her had been switched off.

“Go talk to them, they’re waiting,” she said quietly.

And they were, in the living room, sitting close on the couch. I approached cautiously, hands in pockets.

“I am sorry,” I began. “For everything. What I did to you ten years ago was very damaging. I’m sorry.”

“It is understandable, though,” said Oliver. “I mean, we do know why you did it.” He crossed his left calf over his right knee and placed his arm round James’s shoulders. I looked away, and then I heard him sigh. “Dad, we like to be close. We like to touch, we like to cuddle, it’s in our nature.”

“I realise that. I’m coming to terms with it. It’s just … I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Depends. What’s that lock on your door for?”

He cleared his throat. “We’re sleeping together again.”

Why’d he have to say it like that? ‘Sleeping together.’ He knew bloody well what that sounded like. Unless … unless that was what he meant.

“You’re sharing a bed again, you mean.”

A pause, and then, “Yes.”

“That’s why James’s most recent bout of sleepwalking ended so quickly. Because he sought you out. And found you.”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t require a lock on your door, though, really. If all you’re doing is sleeping.” I still couldn’t look at them. I stared down at my feet, stuffed my hands more tightly into my pockets.

“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.”

“Jesus -”

“If you don’t want to discuss this, we don’t have to.”

I glanced at them then. James had curled up against Oliver, head on Oliver’s shoulder, hand lightly fingering the material of the t-shirt Oliver had slept in. Oliver’s arm encircled him protectively.

“Your mother knows, right? Knows … everything?”

“She does.”

“And how’d she take it?”

He smiled, an almost wistful look creeping into his eyes. “She slapped me.”

I smirked. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Then she had us kiss full on the mouth in front of her.”

My smirk faded quickly and my stomach dropped. “Oh … really.”

“Said she had to see it to know if she could accept it. And she could, apparently. Said we were beautiful together.”

And there it was. No one had actually said _it,_ but there really was no mistaking what he meant.

“Well, she would,” I replied, feigning nonchalance.

“It might help you, too, you know.”

“It won’t,” I replied quickly. “Believe me. In fact, I think I’m going to have to forget everything that came after ‘She slapped me.’”

“Is it really so bad, dad?” he asked again.

I wanted to look at him in disbelief, but, once again, was finding it difficult to look at them for very long. “Are you joking?”

“We were the same person once, James and me.”

“So what?”

“If there is a group of people on this planet who are truly deserving of each other’s physical love, it’s identical twins. We were literally once the same entity, dad …” He trailed off. I think the fact that I’d shut my eyes and lowered my head when he’d said ‘physical love’ made him rethink what he was saying. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear it, but … Do you want us to leave?”

I looked at him then. “What?”

“Do you want us to move out?”

“No, of course not, I’m just … not sure I can handle this. It’s … my god … oh, god.” It was finally beginning to dawn on me, the things they did together at night behind that locked door. I got myself into a chair quickly, hunched over my lap. “Oh, my god.” I looked up at both of them confusedly. “Why? And if you say it’s because you love each other, I swear to god …”

“It just came naturally, dad,” said James. He broke away from Oliver and leaned forward, toward me. “He’s always been my security. He’s always watched over me, always kept me safe. It was natural for us to … to touch. And to kiss. When my sleepwalking started up again before, I went to his bed because it was finally becoming clearer, I was finally becoming conscious of the fact that it was him I was looking for, it was him I was trying to get to every night. I wanted him near me. And yes … I wanted him to touch me.” He said this last very quietly, sort of a half mumble, half whisper. “Believe it or not, I had a hard time accepting it, too, but … Do you understand that? I wanted it. We both did, it’s not entirely his fault. But I think, deep down, you know that.”

I nodded reluctantly. “I do, yeah.”

“Then stop blaming him.”

I sat, staring at my lap, shaking my head. “You’re … the two of you are … I mean, you’re really …” I didn’t want to say it. I couldn’t. The words wouldn’t even form in my brain, let alone come out my mouth. “Oh, my god.”

“Erm, dad?” said James. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know. I-I just don’t know.” I looked up at them imploringly. “How do I accept this?”

They exchanged a worried glance, then looked back at me.

“We don’t know the answer to that,” said James softly. “We don’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt,” I said a little too quickly, too harshly. “I’m just … in shock, and … a little appalled, to be honest.”

“Only a little?” asked Oliver with a good-natured smile. “Well, that’s a start, isn’t it?”

“I suppose. And I can’t demand that you stop, clearly. If you’re seeking this out in your sleep, then it’s a pretty intense need.” I looked James dead in the eye. “It would destroy you to let this go now, wouldn’t it?”

James looked so regretful just then. He hated that he was disappointing me, and I hated that I was making him feel that way. “Yes,” he said. “I need him, dad. I don’t sleep very well without him.”

I thought for a second. “I had a hard time accepting it, too,” he’d said. He’d admitted to what they were doing in such a tiny voice. I saw my final chance. I jumped.

“Have you tried?” I asked.

“We tried for ten years, remember?”

“Yes, but you were okay for quite a while there before … before I went and messed things up again. Maybe you’re okay now.”

“Dad,” said James, and I detected a note of sympathy in his voice, “we’re not going to stop … I mean, even if I could sleep without him …” He trailed off, looked into my eyes. I worked up the most earnest look I could muster and gazed hopefully back at him. “We can try it for one night, if you want,” he finally said.

“James,” said Oliver, frowning.

James turned to him. “For dad, Ollie. One night for him, okay? Just look at him.”

Oliver did so. But I could tell he wasn’t seeing what James was seeing. All Oliver could see was a threat. He looked back at James, and I knew those big, soulful eyes of James’s were working their magic on him. He shrugged. “One night, then,” he said, clearly reluctant. “And if that goes well? What then? Another night?”

James shrugged. He looked at me again. “Okay. We’ll try. Tonight.”

“Thank you, James. Please understand, it’s not that I want to tear you apart -”

“I know, dad.”

I stood, and so did he. “It’s just … if you could just _try_ to be more … normal -”

I noticed Oliver roll his eyes and cross his arms, all the while watching us. He was listening intently, watching my every move. I wrapped my arm round James’s shoulders and pulled him aside, out of earshot.

“All right, so I have a gay son, possibly two,” I half-whispered. “And you know what? I think I’m okay with that now.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Honestly, James, I am sorry about the, erm, Greenwood Incident. It was silly and thoughtless of me to try and push you into her arms. I’m sorry.”

He smiled. “Thank you for saying that.”

“Well, you deserve an apology. But this thing with you and your brother …”

The smile faded. “I know it’s weird.”

“It’s more than weird, Jay, it’s … I’m sorry to have to say this, seeing how happy it’s made you, but it’s sick.”

To my surprise, James nodded. “I think that sometimes, too.”

I perked up, feeling even more hopeful. I grasped desperately at his little confession like a drowning man. “Yeah? Does it ever get to you? I mean, I know you’re happy, which is wonderful, but does it ever, you know, nag at you a bit?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“I’m sorry about that, son.” I rubbed his arm, looked sadly into his eyes, tried to tap at those niggling feelings of doubt he was having. “You shouldn’t have to feel that way.” And I could feel Oliver’s eyes on my back the whole time. “Listen, if it goes well tonight, maybe try another night, yeah? And then another and another and another, and then, after a while, maybe …”

“Maybe what?”

“You know Bobby Lawson down the street?”

James’s smile returned. “Dad!”

“Well, he’s a looker, innee?”

“Dad, don’t be silly!”

I smiled, too, and gave James’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s something to think about. He’s planning to go to med school, you know.” He was blushing furiously now, grinning sheepishly and staring at his feet. “Tell you what: you and Ollie can take the dogs out first, then come back and go over your scripts, okay?”

He rewarded me with the type of broad, toothy grin that was normally reserved for Oliver these day. “Thank you, dad,” he said, and gave me an unexpected hug. Then he went back to Oliver to tell him they could go. Oliver stood, glanced sidelong at me, then said something to James. James’s shoulders slumped and he looked worried, but eventually turned to leave the room. He went back to the kitchen to finish breakfast, leaving Oliver and me alone.

“What did you say to him?” he asked.

“He told you what I said.”

“What _else_ did you say to him?”

“You’re awfully paranoid, you know that?”

“Well, why couldn’t you say to me whatever it was you said to him?”

“Because it was meant for him and nothing to be concerned about.”

He glared at me for a moment, then looked away as though there was something off in his periphery that might quell is frustration.

“So, you’re not gay.”

“No,” he answered. “Why? Were you gonna try and convert me, too?”

“Just wondering. I suppose you’re, erm, bisexual then.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, now, what does that mean?”

“It means I don’t know,” he snapped. “It’s only James I …” He dug his toe into the living room carpet. “He’s the only man that I … I mean, occasionally I notice other blokes, but it’s only him I want, really. Just him.”

“So, you could go out with girls if you wanted?”

He glanced ceilingward, and suddenly he didn’t look angry anymore. He looked sad and tired. “Stop it, dad.”

“Oliver, I cannot just sit back and -”

“You don’t understand!”

“You know, your possessiveness of him really worries me, always has. What is that? He doesn’t belong to you, you know.”

“Yes, he does!” And he said this with such fierceness, I almost took a step back. Then, more quietly, seeming to regret his outburst, he said, “Don’t take him away again.”

I frowned. “What?”

“Don’t take him away from me again. Please. You don’t understand, you just say and do these things without thinking, you don’t stop to consider the consequences for other people.”

“Well, that’s a giant load of rubbish. Everything I’ve done in regards to this issue has been mulled over and obsessed about, you’ve no idea. I’ve laid awake at night thinking about all this.”

“Well, who exactly were you thinking about when you were mulling, us or yourself?”

I didn’t jump at that. Instead I crossed my arms and considered him for a moment, then asked, “What do you mean ‘don’t take him away again’? If you’re referring to what I did ten years ago, well, you still had your brother, you two were still close.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t the same.”

“I know it wasn’t the same, you were no longer molesting each other at night.”

“Don’t call it that!” The fierceness was back.

“Keep your voice down!”

“No! He pushed me away! I know it didn’t look like it to you, but you can’t really know, can you? A wall sprang up between us, and it wasn’t my doing. He would reach for me, but then change his mind. I’d go to touch him, and he’d pull away from me.” His lower lip began to tremble, and he cursed under his breath. “He wouldn’t let me call him ‘Jamie’ anymore. I was the only he’d ever let call him that. And he wouldn’t whisper to me anymore, did you notice that? He didn’t want get too close. If he couldn’t say it out loud, he wouldn’t say it at all. That’s how ashamed he was. I know you tried to be tactful back then, I know that, but it didn’t work. We could tell that you knew what we did together and we could tell exactly how you felt about it, too. And we felt so ashamed, dad, you have no idea. If you’d just been a little more accepting, then maybe … That’s ten _years,_ dad. Ten years just gone.” He looked off to the side then, not wanting me to see his tears. And quite frankly, I could barely stand to see him that way. To see my son cry like that, knowing it was because his heart was broken, made me ache inside. I stepped up to him and wrapped my arms around him, felt him shake against me as he released his sobs.

“Please don’t take him away again, please just don’t, please -”

“Shhh,” I hushed him, stroking his back and his hair. “I’m sorry, Ollie. I didn’t know …”

“I just got him back, dad.”

It took a minute, but I finally realised I was shaking as well. I’ll admit it, it frightened me a little to see my almost-adult son sobbing that way. He was a sensitive boy, but not as sensitive as James, or so it seemed. He’d always been the stronger one, the one who could stand up to me without throwing a tantrum, who could look me in the eye with a stoney, determined glare when he got mad. When he was little, he’d never pout, or use tears to his advantage, or call me ‘daddy’ when he wanted to wheedle a favour out of me. He was soft-spoken, yes, and gentle and sweet, and wasn’t afraid to show his emotions, but he was also quite stoic in many ways. He hadn’t cried like this since he was five.

“I’m so sorry,” was all I could think to say. I’m powerless against tears. I just don’t know what to do. “I’m a father, Ol. What would you have done in my place? Just … just let it happen?”

He pulled away and wiped his face with his hands. “I don’t know,” he admitted, sniffling.

“Jesus, sometimes I don’t know which one of you needs the other more.”

“Me neither, actually. But I do need him. We are together, there’s nothing you can do about that. Now, if you want us to go, if you want us to move out or something, then -”

“Stop saying that. I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

“All right. But you’re going to have to accept this. It isn’t going to stop. We’re not doing this to be disrespectful. We just … we just belong to each other, dad. This feels so right to me.”

I could see the conviction in his eyes, and maybe a little urgency. I thought about it, thought about what they’d said earlier, about how they’d started out as one person. Somewhere in my brain, that began to make some kind of bizarre sense. If they had once been the same person, then how could it be wrong for them to …

I couldn’t finish that thought.

“I need him, dad. He’s mine. He’s for me.” His steady gaze unnerved me; it was sad and determined both at once. He placed his hand overtop of his heart, pressed against his chest, repeated “He’s for me,” in barely a whisper.

I nodded slowly. I relented.

“Want me to go tell him he can, er, stay with you tonight, then?” I offered, shuffling my feet. “I can do that, if you want. Peace offering, you know?”

“Just like that? You’re giving up?”

“No, not just like that. You make it sound like this is easy for me. I’m still disgusted, Oliver, I can’t help that. But I’ve never seen you so hurt and scared. If it’d been physical pain hurting you, I could deal with it better, but … and knowing it was because of me,” I shook my head. “I don’t ever want that to happen again. That was just too much … Except when I die. I expect you to get that upset when I die.”

He laughed, and although his eyes still glistened with teary remnants, I was so relieved to see him smile. “Nah, you don’t have to tell him anything. Let him try to sleep on his own.”

“What if it goes well? What if he decides not to come back to you?”

“He’ll come back to me,” he said, without missing a beat. He was as certain as I’d ever seen him. “This isn’t like before. He knows what he needs now. He wants to do this to make you happy. So, let him do it. And besides, if you go in there and tell him you’ve changed your mind, he’ll know it was because of something I said, and then he’ll be angry with me.”

“Humph. Sounds like your mother.”

He laughed again. I laughed with him. I clapped him on the back, pulled him in for a half-hug.

“I am sorry, dad. About all this. I’m sorry we … we can’t be normal.”

Hearing him say that word, ‘normal,’ and in that context made me wince. My sons didn’t think they were ‘normal.’ And it was my fault.

“Don’t say that,” I said, guiding him back to the kitchen. “You’re plenty normal.”

 

Late that night, Oliver finally left James’s bedroom, backing out into the hall and waving back at him. The light from James’s room slowly diminished, then disappeared as James closed his door. It shut with a dull, sad little thud, leaving Oliver in partial darkness. He glanced up the hall in the direction of the master bedroom, but by then, my head had been hastily pulled inside, out of sight.

“What are you doing?” asked Susan from behind me.

“Waiting for an apology,” I said.

“What?”

I turned and walked over to the bed where she was snuggled up, reading a novel. “My apology. I apologised to you for keeping secrets. Now it’s your turn.”

“Excuse me?”

I got into bed next to her. “How long have you known?”

“Known what?”

“Don’t act innocent, you know what?”

She closed her book, cleared her throat, and looked at me. “Say it.”

“I don’t have to say it, you know what it is.”

“Maybe I do. Say it anyway.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think you’ve actually accepted it yet. I don’t think it’s really registered with you yet. So, say it.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You think this isn’t _real_ to me? Are you mad?”

“Have you seen any evidence of it yet?”

“I’ve seen their snuggling, I’ve seen their little looks.”

“We’ve always seen that. That’s not really it. I watched them kiss, Martyn. Really kiss, tongues and everything.”

“I know. Oliver told me. I’ve seen them kiss, too, you know. When they were six.”

“Oh, that doesn’t count.”

“Oliver had his hand down the front of James’s shorts at the time.”

She hadn’t known about that, I’d never told her. I registered a tiny little reaction; a minute raising of the eyebrows. “Still not the same. Now, say it. How long have I known what?”

“Susan, this is silly.”

“No, it isn’t. Do you plan on living with this?”

“I hadn’t decided yet.”

“Well, you don’t want them to leave home just yet, do you?”

“No.”

“And you realise this is something they need to do, right?”

“Well, yes, I suppose -”

“Well, then, you’re going to have to accept it. You can’t pretend it’s not happening. It’s been happening for ages. It’s always been there, right in front of us, and now it’s time to accept it. If we don’t …” She paused, took a deep breath. “If we don’t, we’ll be shutting them out, at least a little, and I don’t want that. We’ve all always been so close.”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe they’re the ones forcing us out?”

“It’s not their fault they’re in love.”

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. “Jesus.”

“How long have I known what, Martyn?”

I sighed heavily, stared straight ahead, anger rising inside me. This wasn’t fair. Why was this happening?

And why wasn’t I ranting and raving and screaming and demanding some normalcy around my own bloody house? I was angry, I was confused, I thought this was all very unfair to me. So, why couldn’t I bring myself to demand that it stop? I knew why. I’d always known. Susan was right. This was always going to happen. It had all been leading up to this. Oliver’s possessiveness of James, James’s innate and constant reliance on Oliver as his protector; it was always going to turn out like this. And the more I tried to pull them apart, the harder they held on. Despite it all. Despite ten years of pulling away from each other, trying to make me happy, they’d sprung right back into each other’s arms.

I mumbled something. Susan leaned in closer. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch that?”

“How long have you known they were having sex?”

“Who?”

“James and Oliver. How long have you known that James and Oliver have been … having sex with each other?” I winced, and my stomach lurched unpleasantly. There. I’d said it. I’d formed the words and said them aloud. My brain flashed on an image of them at age six, in bed together, touching each other, Oliver’s tongue creeping out to have a taste. I tried to think about anything else, but all I could see was them, older, young men, bright ginger hair, clutching each other on the couch in the living room.

My face fell. My shoulders slumped. The anger was dissipating, being replaced by a sense of futility, and the unfairness of it all remained, swelled inside me. The bed shifted, and I felt Susan cuddle up to me. “It’s all right,” I heard her whisper.

“Is it?” I asked. “What about grandchildren?”

“Oh, lots of options there. Adoption.”

“Maybe. Not an easy thing, adoption.”

“Surrogate mother, perhaps.”

“Who’d do that for them?”

I felt her grin against my arm. “I’m sure Christi Greenwood wouldn’t mind carrying their babies.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Yeah, but will she want to give them up once she’s got her clutches on them? I don’t think so.”

“The point is, if they want children badly enough, they’ll do something about it.”

“And if they do? What do we tell the kids about their father and uncle’s relationship?”

She sighed. “I don’t know, Martyn. Keep in mind, we don’t even know how long this is going to last. They could still outgrow it.”

I shook my head again. “It’s been nearly eighteen years, Sue. They’ve seen and done things most kids never get to. They’ve been fawned over by millions, they’ve made all kinds of friends, met tons of different people. And they always come back to each other. When one does something without the other, what’s the first thing he’ll want to do? Run to his twin and tell him all about it. When one has a fight with someone else, what’s the first thing he does. Runs to his twin and falls into his arms. And eventually, they’ll realise just how difficult other relationships are. Compared to what they have together … Well, Christ, I don’t think anything could compare to that. It’s so easy with them, have you noticed that?”

She nodded against me.

“They know it, we know it. They’ll always come back to each other. Always. Because they can. Because it works. Because they fit. Let’s face it, sex was the only thing missing from that relationship, and now they’ve found it, so …”

She was watching me. “You noticed all that? You saw all that in them?”

“Course. How dense d’you think I am?”

She gave a little laugh, pushed up and kissed my cheek. “I had no idea you had the ability to see what I see when I look at them. You keep on surprising me, Martyn Phelps … And I am sorry I didn’t tell you they were lovers.”

I winced again. “It’s all right. What would you have said? How would you have said it? Better this way, I think.”

We stayed like that for a while, cuddled together, staring off at nothing, contemplating the boys' futures, wondering, worrying, hoping, accepting, mourning, and finally letting go. And then doing it all over again.

 

I couldn’t sleep. My dreams were filled with them, with James’s big, sad eyes, with Oliver’s kind gaze giving way to his hard, determined glare, him grabbing James away from me, holding him close, kissing him hard, staking his claim, James giving over, fully, completely …

Thankfully, I’d always wake up before things became too R rated. I finally sat up and got out of bed. It was no use. They were haunting my dreams. So, I decided to go haunt the rest of house.

I went out into the dark hall just as Oliver opened his bedroom door. He took a step out, seemed to step in something and stopped.

“Ew,” he said groggily. He lifted his foot behind him, turned on his bedroom light to examine his foot.

“What? What is it?” I asked, approaching.

“Something gooey,” he said distastefully. “It’s clear, and … Uh-oh.” He lowered his foot and dashed to the room next door. James’s room. The door was open. “I think that’s drool, dad. I think James was sleeping outside my bedroom, he must’ve sleepwalked over, but he’d asked me to lock my door earlier, so I did. He must’ve been trying to get in, then gave up and curled up in the hall.”

“Is he gone?” I asked, as Oliver peered worriedly into James’s room.

“Yeah,” said Oliver, spinning round and making for the staircase. I hurried forward, grabbed his arm. He turned to glare at me. “What are you doing? He could be hurt, or -”

“I’ll get him,” I said calmly.

“But, dad -”

“Oliver, listen! I will get him, and I …” I choked on my words. Took a breath, tried again. “I will get him and bring him back to you. Back to your room.”

He blinked, confused. “You will? Why?”

“Because I have to.”

He examined my eyes for a moment, then nodded, and I think he understood. “Check under the kitchen table,” he said, “and if he’s not there -”

“The recliner in the basement, I know.”

I let him go and rushed downstairs, padded quickly into the kitchen. I didn’t have to check the basement, because he was, indeed, beneath the kitchen table, curled up tight. I turned on the dimmest light in the room, the light over the stove, and shook my head as I walked over to the table and knelt down. “Oh, James,” I sighed. I reached for him and gave his shoulder a light shake. He didn’t react. I shook a bit harder, eliciting an annoyed grumble from him. One more firm shake, and he stirred, tried to get comfy on the hard linoleum, found that utterly impossible, and finally opened his eyes. I was the first thing he saw. He frowned confusedly at me.

“Daddy?” he croaked. My heart leaped into my throat. He hadn’t called me that in ages. My six foot three, seventeen-year-old son suddenly seemed very young and small curled up under the table like that, blinking up at me.

“It’s okay,” I said, stroked his hair. “You sleepwalked down here.”

He looked around him, still confused, frowned. “But … but …”

“Shh, shh, come here, I’ll take you upstairs. Come on.” He took my hand, and I helped him up. He leaned against me, and I wrapped my arm around him, lead him out to the staircase, guided him up.

Oliver was still waiting in his doorway. His wide eyes were on us as soon as we appeared. “Is he okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, he’s fine. A bit confused, is all.” I steered James toward Oliver’s room, whispered, “I’ll tuck him in,” to Oliver on my way passed him. I didn’t look back to check, but I could imagine the look on Oliver’s face; shock, bewilderment, maybe a bit of suspicion.

“This is Ollie’s room,” said James, squinting around in the bright light.

“Yep.”

“You want me to stay here?”

“You clearly need to.”

“But dad, you -”

“James, don’t question it, okay? Just … just get in bed.” I gestured to Oliver’s rumpled sheets.

He was staring at me as if he expected me to declare it all some big joke at any minute. I nudged him toward the bed. Uncertainly, he sat down on it, swung his legs up, and I pulled the covers up over him as he lay down. I then knelt next to him.

“Really?” he asked. I nodded. He still looked as though he didn’t believe me. “Are you sure, I could still try -”

“James, please. I’ve caused enough damage. There’s no use resisting this anymore, this is where you belong.”

Looking no less confused, he pushed himself closer to me, sat up a bit and wrapped his arms round my neck. I hugged him back, held him as tight as I could, tried not to cry. And I was succeeding up until he whispered “I’m sorry” right into my ear. And I couldn’t hold back any longer. The wetness on my cheeks actually startled me. I didn’t make a sound. I quickly wiped my face, gave his cheek a quick little kiss, and gently disentangled myself from him before a new batch of tears began to flow. I touched his face and smiled as best I could.

“Go to sleep now, okay?” I said shakily. I stood and turned away quickly, couldn’t look back just yet. Oliver was standing halfway between the door and his bed, watching us. His eyes were soft now, his mouth curled into a gentle smile as I approached him. “I leave him in your capable hands,” I said. Then, realising what that sounded like, I gave an embarrassed smile. “I mean, er …”

“It’s okay. We can pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“This is really okay with you?”

“Honestly, Oliver? I have no idea. At the moment, I …” I forced myself to glance back at James. He was curled up on his side, face half buried in Oliver’s pillow. He was still squirming a little under the sheets, no doubt nestling as far into that mattress as he could, inhaling his brother’s scent, surrounding himself with it. He looked very content. “I don’t feel I have a choice,” I said. “There’s something physical between you, it’s always been there. Fighting it is fighting nature. Nature always wins.”

“I’m sorry, dad.”

“Please don’t say that,” I said quickly, blinking rapidly and looking down at my feet. “Don’t apologise. No need. So, er, I’ll leave you two alone, I guess. Erm … goodnight, then.” I tried to get passed him, but he wouldn’t let me. He grasped my shoulders and held me where I was, looking into my eyes. I couldn’t bear to stare back for long. I looked down again. And that’s when he embraced me, just as James had done, nearly putting his full weight against my body, as though he was a little boy, as though he wasn’t taller than me, wasn’t a big man. I hugged him back, squeezed him as I had squeezed James, then pushed him away when I felt the tears overtaking me, but not before he was able to whisper “Thank you” into my ear.

I escaped before he could see my eyes leaking. I gently closed the door behind me, not looking back. I went downstairs, as I’d originally intended, sat at the kitchen table, and had a really good cry. I can’t remember when the last time was that I cried like that. I don’t think I cried like that when my father died.

But I felt lighter afterward, and, believe it or not, happier, more optimistic. I wiped my face, blew my nose, and, realising how tired I was, headed back upstairs to bed. I drifted right off and slept peacefully through the night.

And in the morning when I got up and passed by Oliver’s bedroom, the door wasn’t closed. It was open just a couple of inches. I poked my head in, and I could see from where I stood that they were fast asleep, face-to-face, forehead-to-forehead. I actually smiled. No, I can’t believe it either, but I did.

I was in something of a fog for most of the following days. I think it was probably my brain’s way of filtering everything, so I didn’t get overwhelmed. Everything seemed just a little hazy for a while there, bits of information drifting lazily into my head and being processed very slowly. The following Sunday morning, Susan and I were in the kitchen again, she at the table with the paper, I at the window above the sink, gazing out at the new day.

“Do you blame me?” she asked suddenly. I glanced at her and found she was watching me. I knew what she meant. I shook my head.

“You? Nah. Certainly not as much as I was blaming Oliver, anyway. Been blaming him since he was six. Can you believe that?”

“… Sadly, yes, I can.”

I chuckled at that, looked back out the window, found my train of thought again. “All identical twins are lovers on some level, I think,” I said.

I heard her chair scrape against the floor. She stood and approached, wrapped an arm round my waist, sipped tea with her other hand. “What’re you on about now?” she asked.

“They’ve always been lovers, Sue.”

“That only just started a couple of months ago.”

“No, you misunderstand. They literally began as one entity. In here.” I pressed my palm to her belly. She gazed up at me. “And what is love making if not an attempt to achieve oneness with another?”

She smiled, placed a hand overtop of the one on her stomach. “That was rather beautiful. You’ve the soul of a poet, Martyn. I’d forgotten that.”

I looked back out the window at the golden shafts of sunlight piercing the dense gray cloud cover, illuminating the world, making it all clearer. I nodded, a bit of my haziness lifting just a little.

“Me, too,” I said.

END


End file.
